


Little Locked Rooms

by AshToSilver



Category: Batman (Comics)
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M, Prompt Fill
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-05
Updated: 2014-03-05
Packaged: 2018-01-14 14:35:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 676
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1270111
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AshToSilver/pseuds/AshToSilver
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Your originality concerning your situation is almost painful."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Little Locked Rooms

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lovejoker4ever](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=lovejoker4ever).



> For lovejoker4ever, who asked for " _My prompt is “regret”. Jokester/Owlman please. The feeling is heart-broken(I think I need this right now because of my inner masochism). Thank you and wish you have a good night^^_ " on the Bat Jokes forum.
> 
>  **EDIT Aug/2016:** I have changed my username, I am now going by AshToSilver on AO3 and [my new Tumblr](http://ashtosilver.tumblr.com/)! You can still call me Alex, but I no longer have a day of the week in my name.

"You know what I'd give anything for?"

"My God. It speaks."

"A good joke."

"Your originality concerning your situation is almost painful."

There's silence, for a moment. The clown tucked next to Thomas shifts a little on the bed, blinks slowly.

"I can't remember what a good joke was like." The whisper's a bit hoarse, he's not looking directly at the owl. "You're awfully boring."

"I could leave."

" _Don't_."

Thomas can feel the edge of bone dig into his side as the clown shifts again. There's barely any muscle left on him, not much in the way of fat either. When he leads his head back against the owl's shoulder, Thomas can hear the faintest wheeze of damaged lungs protest.

He's a mere shadow of the Jokester. Thomas brushes a hand through dry hair, presses against the back of the clown's neck. Buries his nose just under the jawline, imprints teeth against skin.

The comedian leans right into it, eyes fluttering closed.

"You know what used to be the  _best_  joke?" And the croak draws Thomas away.

"No."

"You and me." There's a dry giggle, one that rattles about in his ribcage like it doesn't know what to do after so long. "Always chasing each other around, like boys after skirts."

"I doubt that's a good way to describe it."

"It's a  _perfect_  way to describe it. You were always after something. Some grand idea of how you wanted everything to happen. The world finally listening to you. A good recipe for shortbread and me in a dress. Hell, maybe you were looking for something to be funny as much as I was."

"That's a terrible example."

The Jokester rolls a shoulder in a gesture that isn't quite a shrug. It's moments like these that it occurs to Thomas how very  _little_  the clown actually argues anymore. How little he fights. How much he's gotten inside of the owl, because something in his chest isn't agreeing with him at all.

It wants to see the clown  _scream_ with laughter.

"I will have to go for a bit." Thomas focuses on the door off to the side, the only one out of the room. There's a little light by it, telling him he's free to open it now that the timer on the other end's been unlocked. "I have a meeting."

"Must be vastly interesting. Going places. Doing things." There's the beginning of a slur in the Jokester's voice. He's got three fingers on one hand hooked onto Thomas's, squeezing like his life depends on it. "I liked doing that."

It takes more effort then it should to untangle from the clown, to lay him back down properly on the bed. To put everything he brought in with him - the books, the food, the music and arrange it all to be carried out.

"One question." The Jokester's flopped loose against the sheets. He's struggling to keep his eyes open. "Why don't you just kill me?"

"I never intended to do that at all. This is a temporary situation."

The focus that is drawn, for only a matter of seconds, as the clown tilts his head and meets Thomas's eyes, is the clearest it's been in months.

"I can't get back up." He says, and slips under the wave of drugs crashing through his system.

There's something twisting inside of Thomas. Like a clockwork toy being wound too tight. Something going  _tick, tick, tick_.

"It's completely temporary." He tells the clown, even if he's asleep. "You'll be fine once this is over. Once the Syndicate gets its head out of its ass, you can go back out."

Something like the clown's laughter is rattling in his head.

"Perfectly fine." He whispers, bends over, presses something soft like a kiss against the sleeping face. Waits, but knows there's no response.

Superwoman gives him a sharp look when he shows up. "Better not make me regret this, Owlman." She sneers. The council gives him a strange look.

"Wouldn't dream of it." He smiles. And whatever's ticking inside of him, stops.


End file.
